


kiss me, kill me

by cardinalrisk



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Smut, mafia!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 19:55:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18017399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinalrisk/pseuds/cardinalrisk
Summary: “Tao needs you,” he reminds himself, repeats it until he can’t.





	kiss me, kill me

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:**  explicit sex, mentions of violence, blood, and kinks

_Sometimes before it gets better,_  
the darkness gets bigger,   
the person that you'd take a bullet for, is behind the trigger

 

Three hours had passed since they had last spoken, a tense silence weighing heavily. Five hours since the sun had set, the sky an expanse of pure onyx, the crescent moon and dusting of stars rarely seen once again hidden by dark clouds and a thick layer of pollution. Several hours earlier Zitao had become restless and Yixing was left to clean up his mess. Sixteen hours earlier Lu Han had left and never looked back.

It was desperation maybe, a false hope that he would return. Walk through the open door and join the two of them as he usually did, cold bottles of beer in hand as they lounged on the rooftop and watched the city nightlife play out below them. But it was only the two of them, beer still untouched and turned warm in the summer night air, the streets below matching the sombre mood, a burst of raucous laughter sounding as a group of drunkards stumble down the sidewalk.

The lights of Beijing surround them, familiar and once a comforting sight. Now all they serve as is a reminder of what they refuse to admit aloud. Yixing stands, bones popping after sitting still for so long and he looks at Zitao, voice soft, an attempt to soothe.

“We need to sleep.” Zitao starts and Yixing already knows tears will stain the fabric of Zitao’s pillow tonight. “We still have a job to do tomorrow.”

Zitao follows wordlessly, silence still pressing down. The beers are left, two with their metal caps missing, a third sits by itself, condensation dripping down and showing nothing of the hand it was meant to be held in.

 

 

 

Yixing was still awake when the first rays of light began to filter through the half-open blinds, a soft groan falling from his lips as he turned over and pressed his face into a pillow, muscles aching with each movement. He was quite content to stay where he was for a few more hours, to try and attempt to snag any amount of the sleep that had evaded him all night. And he can almost pretend everything is okay. Almost, _almost_ , but not really. The apartment is too quiet, too lifeless.  Tranquil almost, but there’s the sound of breaking glass, a muffled curse that rings in his ears.

He manages to drag himself up, back cracking as he stretches, rubs his shoulders to work out any kinks as he follows the source of the noise. The apartment was eerily quiet, there was no purposely off-key singing coming from the bathroom, no scent of freshly ground coffee wafting through the air, just the sound of his own quiet breaths as he turned into the living room.

“Zitao, what are – shit.” Yixing swore as he laid eyes on the younger man, brows pinching in a frown, soft sigh leaving his lips.

Zitao tilts his head, blinks with an almost childlike innocence, the thin line of crimson slowly making its way down his arm a sharp contrast to the pout on his lips. “Ge, I made a mess.”

Yixing breathes in sharply, pays no mind to the shattered glass littered over stained floorboards and instead surges forward, fingers curling around a too slim wrist to survey the damage. Zitao’s skin is hot under the brush of his thumb, vermillion blossoming from flesh parted clean, warm and sticky. “Don’t move,” Yixing murmurs, dropping Zitao’s arm gently so he can stumble back, “stay here Zitao.”

And he shouldn’t do this, should shut the behaviour down and get Zitao back into the right headspace while he still could. But that had always been Luhan’s job, the one that had balanced them, kept them from ripping one another apart with their destructive love. The leader to a trio Yixing had never imagined breaking. And anxiety claws its way in, settles in the cavity of his chest in a suffocating warmth, fingers fumbling through the kitchen draws to find the first aid kit.

Though he should have known, because Luhan was dangerous, unpredictable, had warned him before it had begun, when it had still been nothing more than clandestine meetings under a faulty streetlight, a downtown hotel where whispered promises were lost between stiff sheets and hot bodies.

And maybe they were wrong, maybe something had gone wrong, maybe he hadn’t left, had been given no choice, _just maybe_ \- but Yixing doesn’t let himself hope, drops the container he finds on the bench so he can brace himself against it, steady his breathing and pretend it’s not tears stinging his eyes.

“Tao needs you,” he reminds himself, repeats it until he can’t.

Zitao is gone when he finally comes back but he doesn’t falter, had expected it really, and he finds him in Luhan’s room, curled up in the still messy sheets, a photo frame held lightly in his grasp. Yixing says nothing, grateful when Zitao allows him to take the frame away, sitting in a cold, thick silence while he works with needle and thread to stitch the wound closed. He can see how out of it he is, lost somewhere in memory, when things were easier for him to deal with, and Yixing wishes he could do the same, sometimes.

The younger male turns away when Yixing confirms he’s finished with a soft murmur, fingers seeming to reach out, only to curl around nothing but cotton, looking too small in the soft light falling through half open blinds. Yixing decides to stay, fiddling with the strands of Zitao’s hair, fingers soothing while his voice lulls the other into a fitful slumber, the routine familiar, comforting almost.

The frame is still resting beside them and he reaches out for it, thumb brushing over where Zitao’s left a sticky fingerprint on the glass. It was the three of them, unfocused and caught mid-laughter, back from Luhan’s twenty-first, yet it had always been the elder’s favourite. He places it back on the bedside table, back where it belongs.

He could do this. If it were for Tao, he could do anything.

 

 

 

_“You’re the guest of honour Luhan,” Yixing chides, words whispered while they follow Zitao through the door hidden near the back, “you shouldn’t abandon your own party.”_

_Yet he doesn’t pull away, breathing out an exasperated laugh with the look Luhan sends him, willingly following the elder, tugged along by the light grip around his wrist. “No one will notice we’re gone, they’re all too drunk. Loosen up a little Xing.”_

_The hallway Zitao leads them down is dimly lit, windows following the length of the hall allowing light to fall in, glinting softly against the silver lining of the masks each of them wears. Zitao is ahead, footsteps echoing as he stumbles, a soft giggle echoing back to them and Yixing can tell the youngest of them is just past the point of tipsy, watching as he disappears around the oncoming bend._

_“He’s going to get himself lost.” Luhan says, but his tone is fond, the two coming to a stop when Zitao reappears in front of them._

_“I found a room.”_

_Zitao is the one who leads, who initiates, the three stumbling through the dark before Yixing finds a working lamp, lets the warm glow wash over the room as Luhan kicks the door shut with the heel of his foot, leaning against the doorframe with his lips curled. Zitao’s the first to crawl onto the bed, but Yixing is the one who presses him down, frames his hips with his thighs and catches his wrists, kisses Zitao pliant and needy._

_But then Luhan’s there, demanding in presence, soft in his touches._

_“It’s my birthday,” he whispers, presses it to Yixing’s neck, “indulge me.”_

_Zitao laughs and Yixing smiles, but they’re all too willing._

 

 

 

The two are quiet when they enter the building, had cleaned up until deemed presentable before they had come, dressed dark, moods darker. They wait until they’re called in, Zitao shifting restlessly beside him until Yixing takes his hand, soothes him with the gentle rub of his thumb.

But they split apart when the pretty secretary waves them through, leaves trivial things such as feelings on the other side of the door.

“The documents we secured,” Yixing was always straight to the point, dropping the folder on his boss’s desk before the man even glances up. “Everything is there, as requested.”

Yifan looks up with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, his gaze moves from Yixing, lingers on Zitao. “Where’s Luhan?”

“Out of town,” Zitao pipes up. “Emergency.”

Yifan seems satisfied enough with the answer, attention falling back to the laptop in front of him. “Payment will be given within the hour, but you’re done for the month. Go home, rest, fuck, do whatever it is you do. I’ll see you boys next month.”

 

 

 

Zitao is big. All hard, lean muscle, hours spent working out to keep himself at his best. But beneath Yixing, he’s small.

His hands smooth over a slim waist, travelling up the length of Zitao’s spine, sweat pooling in the dimples of the younger’s back, before they tangle in blonde strands, curling tight and _yanking_. “Be a good boy for ge,” Yixing whispers, light threat pressed to the nape of Zitao’s neck as hips snap forward, drive harder, deeper. A choked _yes_ falling from lips swollen from a brutal face-fucking, cheeks already stained with the remnants of tears.

This wasn’t the first, they had touched, fucked, alone before. But not since Luhan had been gone, not since he had left, and the frustration is almost suffocating, the two of them tangled on the training room floor, buzzed from a workout, angry at each other, at themselves. And it’s rough, dangerous, nails ripping flesh, the drag of Yixing’s cock too dry. But they don’t stop, can’t, not now.

Because the memories are too much, too fresh.

It wasn’t enough, Yixing’s control, had never managed to be, and it was obvious in the way he handled the younger man, uses him for all he was. And in the moment, it’s all for himself, a release he had needed for far too long. He turns Zitao into a canvas of stinging red, purple bruises, paints his release along the curve of Zitao’s spine. And he takes a moment, manages to piece himself back together enough to fist Zitao’s cock, push him over the edge he had toed for so long.

He can’t bring himself to bring Zitao down gently, with the warmth he deserves. Instead he crashes, still when Yixing stands on shaky legs, says something about a shower.

He pretends he can’t see the tears.

 

 

 

There was a certain rush to it, Zitao thought, releasing a breath as the man in his arms fell limp. The excitement that coursed through his veins in every job, the ache of his muscles as he dragged the dead weight of the man back into the room he had hidden himself in, letting the body fall to the floor with a muffled _thump_. He’s careful, glancing both ways, head tilting at the flash of movement to his right. Italian leather clicks along the marble floors as he makes his way down the corridor, expensive paintings framed in gold lining the walls, lights glinting against the crystal chandeliers.

It had been a month to the day since the last call, and it was the same as always; infiltrate, analyse, secure the package, and get the fuck out before they got caught.

The package, nothing more than an SD card the same size as Zitao’s thumb, was tucked safely in his pocket. And they were done, Yixing already waiting for him in the garage below. This had always been the easiest part, the nervous energy that always lingered finally disappearing when Zitao hooks his leg over the leather seat of the motorbike, reaching for the helmet Yixing hands back.

The engine thrums, loud, but it’s not enough to mask the footsteps, the voice that sends an involuntarily shiver down the length of Zitao’s spine.

“Don’t move.”

The hand that falls back, grasps onto his, proves this wasn’t a dream.

“Luhan,” Zitao’s voice is shaky, a jitter of astonished relief and fear from the cold press of a gun to his head.

“I’ve been thinking,” Luhan hums, thumb flicking off the safety when Yixing shifts, a firmness in the curl of his lips, “and recalled a theory you once mentioned to me. Though it seems to escape me at times, I’m sure you remember Zitao, hm?”

He does, had never been able to forget. And despite himself, his leg twitches, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. Luhan tuts, adjusts his grip to press harder, metal biting into skin until Zitao winces, averts his eyes when a humiliated flush creeps up his neck.

“I wanted you to hurt me,” Zitao whispers, feels Yixing’s back stiffen, the hand laced through his tightening, “I wanted you to make me bleed.”

“Good boy.” And then the guns gone, but there’s metal pressed to his neck, biting against the skin, the sharp intake of breath from Yixing when Luhan switches targets, taps the muzzle carelessly against the curve of Yixing’s jaw. “And Yixing, my sweet Xing. You were always such a voyeur, always wanted to watch.”

“Luhan, please.”

It’s Yixing this time, soft, familiar. But he’s ignored, the knife at Zitao’s throat favoured, the first line of crimson stark. “I think it’s time we tested this little fantasy out.”

There’s a quiet inhale, a finger pressing in, an exhale.

“Zitao always looked prettiest in red, after all.”

 

 

_So give me your filth_

_Make it rough_

_Let me trash your love_


End file.
